Truisms
by piaffe417
Summary: Everything is connected. Nothing is random. A butterfly flaps its wings in South America and kicks off a snowstorm in Michigan. COMPLETE
1. A Chance Encounter

A/N – This is the first in what (I hope) will be a four part series. Be sure to let me know what you think – just don't sue me because I don't own these characters. (I don't even own the computer I'm writing this on – how sad is that?)

_All things appear and disappear because of a concurrence of causes and conditions. Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else.__" Buddha_

E equals MC squared.

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

True statements, to be certain. Each one is based on years of calculated and careful scientific research and data collection. And yet to the majority of laymen that hear them – even repeat them when at a loss for a way in which to give an answer that is rather obvious if one is truly paying attention – they are meaningless. These truisms have become so ingrained in the collective consciousness of the general public that it seems they were written for the sole purpose of being spat out at the exact moment that such lowly logic is required.

But are they really so base? So useless and trivial? Is there perhaps a deeper level of trueness to these statements that the human mind – no matter how well-educated – fails to grasp?

Consider this:

On a gray and chilly New York evening, a man – very tall with broad, beefy shoulders, a snub nose that is slightly crooked from having been broken at least twice, and dark salt and pepper hair that lends him an air of distinction – strolls purposefully down a city sidewalk, oblivious to a misty drizzle that has begun to fall. He is not the type of person who could be labeled as conventionally handsome, but there is a swagger in his step and a charming quality to his expression that is worth a second appraising look. At his side is a young boy of seven or eight, big for his age with long hands and feet that indicate a significant growth spurt in his future. His hair is dark and curls close to his head and, though his face is a blank mask that indicates his resignation in following the tall man before him, his eyes are sharp and lively, missing nothing of his surroundings.

The pair are quite obviously father and son – or, possibly more accurately, "before" and "after," as the towering man seems to carry a substantial weight on his rounded shoulders, weight accumulated by time and life and all of the twists and turns that he could not plan for and that took him by surprise. Each surprise – and subsequent disappointment – is etched onto his face in the lines of his eyes and mouth and the graying stubble that peppers his cheeks. The youth's face, in contrast, is smooth and at first glance appears to be free of worry, though one peek into his dark eyes - eyes that see everything and file pertinent information away for later use - reveals a startling surprise: deep within their depths, a discerning eye can recognize an old and tired soul that is at once worried for the future and exhausted by its past.

And so the man and boy walk side by side, each carrying his own burden in silence while the gray New York drizzle falls on and around them, the tiny droplets of water gathering on their shoulders like dust. At a seedy-looking bar with a neon sign that blinks and fizzles like a worn-out bug zapper, the man stops his forward progress and steps inside, the boy at his heels.

The interior of the bar is dark and everything – the tables, chairs, and people – seems to be covered in a haze of smoke. The patrons look up at the sound of the door opening, but if any of them think it inappropriate for an eight-year-old child to be in a bar in a shady part of town on a rainy evening, no one speaks up. Meanwhile, the man pushes between the tables until he reaches one at the very rear that is occupied by a wiry black man with silver hair and dancing elfin features. He is scribbling furiously in a tiny red notebook, a pair of half-spectacles sitting low on his nose.

"Hey-a, Mr. Goren," the black man looks up from his work, eyes rising over the tops of his glasses. He takes in the two forms before him. "This your boy? Spitting image of you, sir. Spitting image."

"My youngest – Bobby," Goren jerks his chin in the direction of the boy.

"Pleasure," Eddie nods to the youth, who nods back politely. "Well, Mr. G. - what's the good word?"

"Don't know, Eddie," the tall man pulls out a chair, turns it around, and seats himself in it backwards. His arms rest across the back and his chin comes to rest on his arms. "You hear anything worth talking about?"

During this exchange, the boy has come to a stop behind his father but does not sit. Instead, he stands silently by like a nervous tin soldier, arms held awkwardly at his sides and fingers twitching idly while he watches the conversation unfold before him. He is clearly uncertain of his role here and not at all comfortable in his surroundings.

"I heard the Yankees are looking sweet this week," Eddie shrugs offhandedly.

"Everybody's heard that, Ed," Goren shakes his head, disinterested. "I need to hear something a little more interesting."

"All right, all right," Eddie smiles good-naturedly and waves a hand as though to erase his previous statement. "Don't let it be said that Uncle Eddie's lost his touch. Try this: I heard from a guy at Belmont that there's a sure thing long shot running in the eighth race tomorrow."

"A sure thing long shot?" Goren repeats in disbelief. His tone is annoyed and behind him, his son tenses in reflex. Goren is obviously not to be contended with when his ire is up.

Eddie, however, is unperturbed. "That's what I said, Mr. G. A sure thing – this guy heard from the trainer directly that this horse can't lose."

"They can all lose, Eddie," Goren tells him condescendingly. "Ten horses flying down a track at forty miles an hour with a welterweight standing on his tiptoes and trying to steer – anything could happen."

"Ain't that the truth," Eddie smiles and nods in agreement. Then his face sobers. "But if he wins, he'll pay big, Mr. G. He'll pay _big_."

Goren's eyes narrow now and he tilts his head to the left: a thinking pose. His eyes narrow and squint and he summons a puff of air that, when expelled from his chest, accompanies the words: "What's the name?"

"Hari Kari," Eddie replies smoothly, eyes glittering with the prospect of a deal.

"You're kidding?" Goren isn't amused and his son's fingers resume their nervous twitching behind him.

"No sir," Eddie shakes his head sadly. "But like I say, it's a sure thing."

"Odds?" Goren wants to know, tone resigned now instead of annoyed.

"Seventy to one," Eddie tells him.

"How many in the field?"

"Just eight."

Goren resumes his thinking pose and cracks his knuckles while he contemplates the bet. He glances back towards his son, then – not to ask him anything but rather as if to indicate to him that he should pay attention, that this is one way to be a real man when he's all grown up. The boy's face remains blank, however, the eyes almost judgmental in their observation of the man before him. It is as though the son - at the tender age of eight - knows more than the father and, seeing this, the elder Goren looks away in disgust.

"Make itthree hundred," Goren fumbles in his pocket for the cash and Eddie makes some scribbling notations in the red notebook.

"You won't regret it, Mr. G," Eddie assures him.

"I hope not," Goren rises to his feet and returns the chair to its original position. To the boy, he barks, "Let's go, Bobby."

Like a well-trained spaniel, the boy follows silently behind his father as they weave back between the tables and chairs and out the door. The drizzle has ceased but the evening air is still damp and chills both figures to the bone.

They turn to proceed back up the street when a voice stops them, an authoritative tone that catches the attention of Mr. Goren so that the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"You there!" the voice calls and the pair turns to see a rather short but sturdy police officer walking towards them. Beneath his hat, the boy notices that his hair is a dark brownish shade of red – "an Irish mick," his father would say in disgust (and probably will on the way home).

"Is there a problem, officer?" Mr. Goren asks in his most polite tone, though neither young Bobby nor the officer miss the thread of disrespect that runs through it like an electrical current.

"You just came out of a bar with an eight-year-old kid in tow and you're asking me what the problem is?" the cop chuckles slightly as though he can't believe the question.

"Oh, that," Mr. Goren fakes a high-pitched laugh and waves a hand as though to dispel the trouble at once. "The kid had to use the bathroom, see? He wouldn't have made it another block. Didn't want him to have an accident."  
"You mean you didn't want to miss placing a bet with Uncle Eddie," the cop corrects him knowingly. His words are unhurried and he doesn't sound angry, but rather as though he's participating in a well-rehearsed scene from a play.

"Now officer…" Mr. Goren starts in again, his tone sliding and winding like a serpent.

"Save it," the policeman cuts him off. He stands toe to toe with Mr. Goren – the sheer height of the latter rendering the picture slightly ridiculous as he looks up to meet the darker man's eyes – and his voice is firm and even: "Now listen here: I know exactly what goes on in that bar and I'm not out to bust you for it tonight. I'm not even going to bust you for taking a minor in to an establishment that he's under age to be in. But I _am_ going to give you a piece of advice and that is this: whatever business dealings you conduct on this street in the future, you leave your boy at home. He has no place here and he'll be better off in the future for not being involved in this racket. You understand?"

"Of course, officer," Mr. Goren nods demurely, but his spine has tensed beneath his overcoat and resentment drips from him while he bites off the polite words. "Thank you."

To Bobby, the officer says, "This is no place for you, son. You be a good boy, now."

"Now go home," the officer commands Mr. Goren with a pat on the head for young Bobby. Thoroughly chastised, the man and boy set off once more in the direction of home.

"Stupid Irish mick," Mr. Goren mutters predictably when they are out of earshot. He will continue to mutter in angry tones until they reach their destination.

Young Bobby says nothing, his mind lingering on the scene he has just witnessed, though he isn't replaying the conversation over in his head or even watching his father strain to control his temper. Instead, Bobby's mind is focused on single images that are now burned into his memory – the crisp way the officer's uniform fit him with the perfectly pressed pants just sweeping across his instep, the gleam of the badge on his chest, and the confident way in which he strode down the sidewalk. Police officers were strong and brave and this one had gone toe to toe with his father without blinking. Bobby had been struck by those meaty hands enough times to know to be afraid but the officer hadn't backed down. He had a job to do and he had done it without hesitation.

And in the years to come, young Bobby Goren would recall that night sometimes – he would come to think of it as the first time that he saw how ethically people could behave in times when their authority might allow them to overstep their bounds. He would remember the way his father had backed down and the admiration that he held for that police officer who had patted him on the head and told him to be a good boy. And he would think back on that night as the first time he considered joining the police force.

What he wouldn't remember, however, was the name that he had read on that red-haired officer's badge. For all of the observational skills he had possessed as a young boy and that he honed later as a police detective, it had never occurred to him to remember the name of the man who had changed his life, for he hadn't even realized at the time that his life had been changed. And so he would never remember that the little gold name plate emblazoned on the officer's chest read: _J. Eames_.

And so a cycle begins. A butterfly flaps its wings in South America and kicks off a snowstorm in Michigan. Nothing is random; everything is connected.

Still don't believe this to be true? How about another example?

TBC


	2. A Page Turns

A/N – Wow… Your reviews are wonderful and overwhelming. Thank you! I'm so glad that you like this piece – it's super fun to write! And, just so you know, all of the standard disclaimers apply. Want to archive it? Just ask nicely (and send chocolate).

On with the show:

Perhaps the first model was too obscure. Perhaps you as a reader are saying that it was merely a coincidence, that it is impossible to deduce a pattern from one brief interaction. And it is certainly plausible to say that this is a fair assessment.

But what if there is another more obvious example? Something simpler - more blatant – that requires a little less stretching on the part of your imagination.

Try this:

A little girl of about ten skips into the public library on a sunny and mild June morning. Her hair is ash blonde but shows hints of red under the glow of the overhead lights. She's pulled it back into a ponytail with some degree of haste, as a few wisps escape haphazardly and fall over her ears and forehead. She is what most would label as "cute" with her delicate, pixie features and pale skin, but she carries an air about her that indicates she is oblivious to such observation and she is dressed in true tomboy fashion, wearing torn jeans and a dark blue baseball jersey that looks as though she stole it from an older brother.

"Not too far, Allie," chides the voice of her mother as the little girl makes a beeline for the children's section and the _Little House on the Prairie_ books she has committed to memory in her many re-readings of them.

(You see it now, don't you, reader? You're already seeing where this is headed and yet you still don't believe. But you will. Read on.)

The little girl's response to her mother is a casual wave of acknowledgement over her shoulder as she continues her forward progress. Meanwhile, her mother shakes her head in that resigned manner unique to those of a maternal bent and leads her other daughter, a younger version of the ten-year-old sprite who has now flopped down on the floor in front of the paperback section, towards the mystery section to pick up another Agatha Christie caper.

There are small tables scattered throughout the children's section of the library. These tables have been built to accommodate the smaller statures of younger readers and are strewn with books and magazines that need to be shelved. Each table is accompanied by four brightly painted chairs in red and yellow and blue and green, each showing the scuffs and wear from years of use.

In one of the chairs – a red one - sits a grown woman. She is perhaps in her late thirties with pretty features and dark hair that she has pinned back with a set of tortoise shell clips and she is flipping aimlessly through a book with a light blue cover, the title of which cannot be discerned. She is dressed in a prim manner that brings to mind an old-fashioned school marm or proper piano teacher and she seems out of place at first glance, a giant descended upon the Lilliputians. Yet further inspection reveals an innocent and almost childlike air about her, forged with a nervous and unsettled quality that renders her both welcoming and potentially threatening in the same breath. Still, she clearly means no harm to anyone, so engrossed is she in the novel in her hand and thus, no notice is taken of her. And on the floor nearby, young Allie pulls out a copy of _Black Beauty_ and begins to thumb through in search of her favorite part. The two sit in silence, six feet between them, the only sound that of their breathing and the rustling of pages.

It isn't hard to believe that the young girl and grown woman may never have spoken, that each may have read her piece in silence and then vanished from the other's presence without so much as an acknowledging nod or smile. And yet that isn't what this is about. This example speaks to the power of coincidence and the ability of chance to alter the course of one's entire life. And yet despite the fact that this moment is so pivotal in the life of a young girl, what brings Allie to put _Black Beauty_ back onto the shelf and rise to make her way over to the table where the woman reads a nameless novel is unclear. Perhaps she is drawn to the cover of a Beverly Cleary paperback that has been tossed onto the far edge of the table or perhaps she has decided to look for a new issue of _Highlights_ magazine and stops by the table merely to adjust her messy ponytail (the wisps of hair in her face finally having reached the point of annoyance). The reason is unimportant in the long run; the action itself is the only thing that holds meaning, for it is that action that becomes the seed of something far larger than an innocent meeting between a childlike woman and a tomboy of a little girl.

It begins with a simple question spoken in a reedy, innocent voice:

"What'cha reading?" Allie asks the woman, having abandoned the Beverly Cleary book to study the woman before her. She is obviously confused to see an adult invade the territory of children and her eyes squint with curiosity. Still, she folds her hands politely before her on the table while she awaits a response.

The woman's dark eyes rise to meet the pale ones of the little girl, startled out of her reverie and (seemingly) surprised to be noticed at all. Something about the way she holds herself indicates that she was, perhaps, under the impression that she had vanished within the pages of the novel and had become invisible to passersby. It takes her an extra moment to focus her eyes, though her gaze is still far away when she speaks.

"It's called _National Velvet_," she tells little Allie in a voice that sounds very much like a third grade teacher. Thus, she is not giving the title, she is _presenting_ it. Allie seems to note the difference and her face grows interested.

"What's it about?" the little girl frowns.

The woman purses her lips thoughtfully before speaking in clear and deliberate tones. "It's the story of a young girl who takes a horse that nobody wants and wins a big race on him."

"There's a horse in it?" Allie's attention has been fully piqued. She's at that age where horses fascinate her and she asks her parents almost daily if they can move out of the city onto a horse farm.

"A great big one," the woman smiles and some of the guardedness of her manner falls away, as though she realizes that the innocent girl before her poses no threat.

"Neat," Allie smiles. "But why does nobody want him?"

The woman shrugs. "I suppose because he's wild. But Velvet – that's the girl's name – she believes in him and she doesn't listen to any of the people that say that a girl has no place in a horse race. She knows that they can win."

Allie tilts her head to the side, allowing the woman's words to swirl around in her head while she tries to make sense of them. Finally, perplexed, she asks: "But why would people think that a girl couldn't ride in a race? Is it because she's a girl? Girls can do anything that boys can."

The woman's eyes light up at this statement and she chuckles aloud, which elicits a frown from Allie, who asks, "What did I say?"

The woman shakes her head and tells her in earnest, "It's nothing. You're right, my dear – girls can do anything that boys can and don't you ever let anyone tell you differently. If you have a dream, you go after it and don't let anyone stop you."  
Allie smiles at this encouragement and announces proudly, "I'm going to be a cop just like my dad."

The woman nods respectfully. "I believe that you will make a fine police officer when you grow up. You already have the tenacity to be successful."

"What's _tenacity_?" Allie wrinkles her nose, curious.

"It means that you won't let anyone stand in your way," the woman tells her simply. "It means that once you've set your mind to something, you never give up."

"Oh," Allie breathes. "Neat."

"Allie!" her own mother calls from across the room. "Time to go!"

The little girl turns and nods to indicate that she's heard, then focuses her gaze back on the woman at the table and says, "So I have..."

She tries to wrap her tongue around the word "tenacity" again, but struggles.

"You're tenacious," the woman tells her kindly.

"Tenacious," Allie repeats it, rolling it around in her mouth like a piece of candy.

"Alexandra Eames, hurry up!" Allie's mother calls again.

"I guess I'd better go," Allie tells the woman resignedly.

"Here," the woman holds out the copy of _National Velvet_. "Take this. I think you'll enjoy it."

Allie accepts the book and hugs it to her chest as though it is made of gold. "Thanks."

She scampers off, ponytail flying, and meets her mother up at the front desk where they check out their books and head back out into the beautiful day. On their way through the door, they pass a gangly boy of about sixteen with dark hair and eyes who holds the door politely to allow the family to pass before him as he enters the building.

"Thank you," Allie's mother says, tugging on the hand of her youngest daughter. Allie, meanwhile, is already thumbing through her copy of _National Velvet_ and does not look up

"You're welcome," the boy's voice is soft – almost whispering – and he looks down to the floor shyly when he speaks.

When they have gone, he proceeds into the library and heads directly over to the children's section and the woman in the red chair.

"Mom, I've been looking all over for you," he says chidingly, his tone almost parental.

"Bobby, I couldn't find my copy of _National Velvet_ this morning," she explains innocently. "I think _they_ took it."

She whispers the last part to him in a conspiratorial tone and looks around nervously as though she fears being overheard. He sighs and helps her rise to her feet.

"They didn't take anything," he says patiently. "The book is on the coffee table where you left it – it's just buried underneath some magazines."

"Are you sure?" she asks, not quite believing him.

"I'm sure," he tells her, taking her hand and leading her out the door.

"You're a good son, Bobby," his mother says as they walk. "You take good care of me."

And in the years to come, Alex Eames would make a yearly habit of re-reading _National Velvet_, her heart always thrilling when Velvet Brown managed to prove everyone wrong and win the Grand National steeplechase. And every time she picked up the book, one word would pop into her mind: tenacious. And she would remember the woman at the library telling her that she could do anything that boys could do, that she'd be a good police officer because she was tenacious.

And she would smile.

But nowhere in her remembering would Alex Eames recall the long-limbed boy whom she and her mother had passed on their way out of the library that morning. Nose in her book, she hadn't even seen him, just heard his soft voice. She wouldn't associate him with the woman in the red chair who had paid her so great a compliment, nor would she even recall that it had been on that particular day that she and her mother had passed him at all.

The only thing she would remember was that when she was ten and first spoke of her desire to become a police officer, a kind woman in a red chair had told her to go for it and not let anyone stand in her way. She would hear those words in her head through her time in the police academy and while she walked up and down the street in three inch heels and fishnet stockings during her stint in Vice. And she would take pride in the fact that she hadn't let anyone stand in her way, that she was playing on the same field as the boys and holding her own.

And there you have it, dear reader. Coincidences do not exist; everything is connected to everything else in a never-ending chain and even if the parties involved do not recognize this, the connections are still there, holding the entire structure together like invisible duct tape.

What's that? You're still not convinced? My but you're skeptical! We'd best have another example then…

TBC


	3. Catalysts

A/N: Thanks for the kind reviews so far! You guys are the best! I'm having way too much fun writing this – you really shouldn't encourage me, you know. (Okay, I don't really mean that – keep the encouragement coming.) This chapter's a bit longer because it got away from me a bit but I don't think you'll mind in the least. (PS – Sorry for the harsh language, kiddies – I've upped the rating accordingly. Remember, these aren't words that are to be used in polite conversation or in front of your parents, so govern yourselves accordingly.)

Perhaps the reason you don't see the previous two examples as anything more than mere coincidences is because these were childhood incidents in the lives of Bobby and Alex and are therefore not entirely reliable. After all, they happened long ago. Perhaps you'll be persuaded to acknowledge the hand of Fate if you learn of something that happened later, something that happened closer to here and now.

Something like this:

A wiry young man in his late twenties rushes into an emergency room in midtown Manhattan, his shaggy brown hair falling into his face and causing him to repeatedly comb it back with nervous, shaking fingers. He is wearing smoky glasses with oval frames and a beaten leather jacket, his jeans covered in engine grease and his Army boots scuffed and much abused. He rushes up to the receiving desk and demands the attention of the stout, gray-haired nurse working there.

"I'm looking for my friend," he utters hastily, words twitching and leaping nervously from his mouth. "Somebody called and said he's been brought here. He's a cop."

"What's the name?" the nurse asks, unperturbed and unhurried in her manner. This serves only to incite more panic on the part of the young man.

"Goren," he cries. "Bobby Goren. Can you tell me where he is? What's wrong with him? Was he shot?"

"I don't know the status of Officer Goren," the nurse tells him calmly. "He was brought in about an hour ago and I believe they've taken him up to surgery."

"Surgery!" the man exclaims. "For what?"

"I can't answer that…" she begins to say when he cuts her off.

"Dammit - what's a guy got to do to get answers around here?" he demands, face reddening with anger.

"Sir, you're going to have to calm down," the nurse intones sternly. "I will try to…"  
She begins to offer paltry assistance when a voice from the seating area calls out, "Hey Lewis! Over here!"

The young man turns quickly away from the nurse and makes his way over to the scruffy looking man who has called his name. There is a trio of these ragtag characters seated in uncomfortable faux vinyl chairs, each holding a steaming cup of black hospital coffee that smells rather like the crude oil it resembles. They rise in unison when Lewis approaches, garnering a few stares from the people around them who wordlessly examine their torn jeans, discolored t-shirts and beat-up jackets with an air of distaste. It's understandable, as the men look particularly rough around the edges - one sports a full Fu Manchu, one has a pale white scar on his temple that goes up into his black hair and vanishes (it looks as though it was made with a knife), and the other is merely unkempt, his brown hair shaggy and face covered in thick stubble. Yet around their necks are shiny police badges and they carry about them an air of authority and poise, though at present their demeanors are also visibly shaken. It's easy to see that these men aren't used to being worried about anything and they don't enjoy the feeling.

"Sandoval!" Lewis cries, striding up to the knife-scarred Latino man who called his name. "What happened to Bobby?"

"Shit, Lewis – man, I don't know," Sandoval replies with an angry shake of his head. "One minute we're working a deal in this warehouse – simple buy and bust, nothing fancy - and the next minute, this junkie comes running in the door, high on God knows what, and screaming that Armageddon is upon us."

"Armageddon?" Lewis repeats blankly, voice still fearful.

"It was freakin' weird, man," the stubbly one chimes in, running a hand over his sandpaper chin in confusion. "He's got a gun, he's waving it at everyone in the room and we're all standing there with our mouths hanging open."

"Except Goren," Fu Manchu speaks now, voice filled with admiration.

"Yeah, except Goren," agrees Sandoval. "He backs away from the dealers and starts trying to reason with the guy – asks him all friendly, 'Hey man, what's wrong?'"

"Meantime we're trying to get behind these thugs because they're working their way out the door," adds the stubbly officer again. (His badge identifies him as Officer Lisi.) "So we slip around behind and they don't notice because they're watching Goren try to work this guy."

"It was something to see," acknowledges Sandoval, admiration in his tone. "Goren's inching towards him and talking all calm, asking him how he knows that Armageddon is coming. He starts to make shit up on the spot - even says that he's seen the signs but he wasn't sure if he was right. So the junkie stops waving the gun because he thinks he's found some sort of friggin' kindred spirit."

"But then the dealers look at us and we know real quick that our cover is blown," frowns Lisi. "They start running for the door and we grab them – Thomas here took down two at once."

He indicates the barrel-chested man sporting the Fu Manchu when he says this and Thomas nods and says, "Yeah, but the minute we took those guys down, all hell broke loose."

Lisi frowns. "The junkie started screaming about Armageddon again, screamed that Goren was the devil and ran at him with the gun. I couldn't see what happened from where I was, but the next thing I knew I heard a shot and Goren was on the floor bleeding."

Lewis inhales deeply as he takes in the story, his face pale and lips pinched tightly together. He speaks aloud but his words sound more like a thought: "Leave it to Bobby to think he can talk his way out of anything."

"They say the bullet went clean through," Lisi shrugs, trying to sound helpful. "They've taken him up to surgery but they're telling us they think he'll be okay."

"Stupid," Lewis mutters, flinging his wiry frame into one of the chairs and resting his head in his hands.

"Hey man," Sandoval puts a hand on Lewis's shoulder and starts to say something else before he is interrupted by a balding man in a tight gray suit who strides up to the group and barks, "Sandoval!"

"Yes sir," Sandoval straightens obediently, though his eyes narrow suspiciously.

"You three," the suited man scans the police officers before him like a drill sergeant sizing up recruits, "have some explaining to do. What happened out there? How the hell did Goren get shot on a simple buy and bust?"

"Look," Thomas starts to say but is cut off with a wave of the suit's hand.

"Not here," he hisses, gesturing that the three should follow him to a quiet corner of the waiting area, which they do with only slight resentment visible in their postures.

Lewis, meanwhile, stays put, running nervous fingers through his stringy hair and tapping his foot in an uncontrollable rhythm against the floor.

Meanwhile, the emergency room doors hiss open to admit two more police officers – detectives, as indicated by the gold shields on their overcoats – who bear between them a large black man with what appears to be a broken ankle. He is limping and struggling, his progress impeded by the handcuffs holding his arms behind his back, and he is yelling at the top of his lungs that the police are out to kill him.

(Lost in his own worried thoughts, Lewis makes only the barest note of this.)

"What seems to be the problem?" the stoic nurse at the front desk asks the detective nearest her, a handsome Irish-looking man with a square jaw and brown hair that has begun to go gray at the temples. His right eye, however, is puffy and starting to swell – he's obviously been punched recently.

"Mr. Davis here just learned that he isn't Superman," the detective replies sarcastically. "He leapt out a second story window and landed on his feet – for a second anyway."

"Should have come peacefully," intones the detective's partner, a lanky blond man with sharp eyes and features. He shakes the prisoner's arm to emphasize his point, then adds, "Or better yet, don't kill your ex-wife just because she's getting remarried. Then we don't have to come after you in the first place."

"I'm telling you, I'm innocent!" cries Davis, struggling helplessly against the detectives' hold.

"Save it for your arraignment," says the square-jawed detective.

"He's a murder suspect?" the nurse asks nervously.

"Don't worry, I'll be with him the whole time," the blond detective assures her. With a grin, he adds, "My partner here will take care of all of the necessary paperwork."

"Yeah, I love paperwork," mutters the partner.

"Hey, you're on the fast track to becoming Chief of Detectives, Jimmy," the blond detective's grin broadens. "I'm just helping you along."

"With friends like you, Murray," Jimmy shakes his head, but leaves his thought unfinished. "With friends like you."

"What do we have?" asks a scrub-clad doctor, approaching the unlikely group.

"Probable ankle fracture," the nurse replies. "He's a murder suspect, though – the detective here will have to go with you."

"My lucky day," the doctor says dryly. He gestures for an orderly to bring a wheelchair over and the detectives drop their prisoner unceremoniously into it so that he can be wheeled to x-ray. Davis protests loudly at this and his cries can be heard all the way down the hall. Beside him, Murray turns and makes a face and Jimmy, who chuckles and gives a tiny wave of solidarity.

Still chuckling, the detective turns away from the nurses' station with the idea of heading to the waiting area to start on his paperwork when he is stopped in his tracks by a call from the balding man in the gray suit who had earlier been chastising the Narcotics squad for the wounding of one of their own.

"Jimmy Deakins!" calls the balding man, striding up to the detective, whose chuckling quickly dies.

"Malloy," Jimmy nods courteously, though his eyes have narrowed in suspicion. He asks openly, "What's the rat squad doing down here?"

"See, it's this kind of attitude that gives IAB a bad name," frowns Malloy, pulling back the hand he had been preparing to offer to Jimmy to shake. "We're not out to get you, you know. We're cops too."

"If you say so," Jimmy frowns, unconvinced. "But you haven't answered my question."

"You didn't hear, huh?" Malloy says. "Narcotics officer was shot on a simple buy and bust this morning. He's in surgery now – should recover fully."

"That's two in the last week!" gasps Jimmy, disbelieving.

"Don't remind me," Malloy shakes his head. "It's getting to be a dangerous proposition to be a cop at the moment. Look at you even – somebody gave you a hell of a shiner."

"How do you know it wasn't my wife?" Jimmy retorts smartly.

"Hmph," Malloy shakes his head in reply, then returns to the subject at hand. "Well, believe me, this guy didn't get shot by his wife."

"Sounds like if this guy's smart, he'll find himself a new division after he recovers," Jimmy comments with a frown. "Get off the street."

"Oh believe me, this guy's smart," Malloy tells him. "Ex-military, well-read, and has a knack for getting right down to what makes a person tick. The guys in his squad call him a chameleon – you stick him undercover and you can't pick him out as a cop if you try."

"Like I said," Jimmy repeats, "if he's that smart then he ought to have no trouble getting into another division."

"I guess they tried to promote him last year and he wasn't having anything to do with it," Malloy adds, tone gossipy.

"Situation might have changed now," Jimmy tells him pointedly.

"Guess it leaves to be seen," Malloy shrugs. "So long as he doesn't end up like that cop that got shot at Rockaway Beach on Monday. Doolin, I think it was."

"Shot on a routine traffic stop, wasn't it?" Jimmy asks.

"Yeah," Malloy nods grimly. "Tough case, that one – left a wife behind, they'd only been married two years."

"She's a cop too, isn't she?" Jimmy asks.

"Yeah – works Vice out of the three-six," Malloy nods. "Had to pull her off the street to tell her the news."  
"Tough break," Jimmy shakes his head sadly.

"Have to see how long she stays on now," Malloy adds.

"Dammit," Jimmy mutters, more to himself than Malloy. "If this job doesn't kill you, it will certainly drain the life out of you."

"No shit," Malloy agrees emphatically. A pause before he changes the subject by adding, "But last I heard things were looking up for _you_. There's rumblings downtown about you moving your office to One PP. Major case, is it?"

Jimmy rolls his eyes in annoyance, the right one moves painfully and causes him to wince. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Malloy sees that he has struck a nerve and prods a bit more: "Come on, Deakins – I heard that taking the lead on the Thomkovich bust sealed your fate. The Chief of D's has appointed you his latest golden boy." A wicked gleam comes into his eyes, then: "Who'd have thought that old Jimmy 'Who Needs to go by the Book?' Deakins would ever make it to the big time."

"Can it, Malloy," Jimmy hisses menacingly.

"What?" the IAB detective is clearly enjoying the moment, his face a mask of feigned innocence. "It's just a sign that you're mellowing in your old age, Jimmy. No more shiners for you. Congratulations – I'll see you around One PP."

And with that, Malloy departs, giving a wave of his hand over his shoulder as he walks out through the hissing emergency room doors.

Fuming, Jimmy is finally able to make his way over to the seating area, where he takes the chair that was recently vacated by Lewis (who has gone upstairs to see Bobby in recovery). And as he settles into the uncomfortable framework, Jimmy suddenly realizes how tired he is and how sore his muscles are. His eye throbs and he thinks that he should go ask the nurse for some ice – once he gathers the strength to move, that is. He and Murray chased their suspect but for a few blocks – two and a half, to be exact – before they cornered him in his apartment and watched him take a flying leap out the window. And yet Jimmy Deakins feels as though he's just completed the New York City Marathon; his shins are sore, his shoulders ache, and he can feel his knees start to stiffen as he reclines.

He starts to wonder then if maybe moving up to Major Case wouldn't be so bad. The talk he's heard has had the sheen of reliability on it; the promotion offer may well be on its way.

It's merely a kernel of a thought at that point, born out of exhaustion, soreness, and his recent argument with Malloy but remembering the stricken faces of the Narcotics squad that he viewed upon his arrival and thinking of the newest police widow who may or may not return to the force causes the thought to root and take hold. After all, it could easily have been him or Murray admitted to the ER on this day – they charged into Davis's apartment with no idea whether he was armed or not. What's more, they hadn't particularly cared. They were bent on doing their jobs, on bringing in the man whom they knew to be guilty, and they'd gone for it. Doing things by the book be damned! Malloy is right about that – Jimmy is a fan of results, not regulations and today he has the shiner on his eye to prove it.

And yet regulations might just keep him alive, might enable him to watch all three of his daughters graduate from high school and college and walk them down the aisle when they marry.

_One Police Plaza, here I come_, Jimmy thinks resolutely to himself as he waits in the seating area for his partner to emerge with their suspect. The offer isn't on the table yet but he has an answer ready for it when it does. And he will tell his wife of his decision when he gets home– right after he asks for some Advil for his aches and pains and some ice for his eye.

Lastly, Jimmy Deakins says a silent prayer that the wounded Narcotics officer will also make a life-altering decision when he recovers and that the widow of the slain officer will have the strength to carry on. He figures it's the least he can do.

And upstairs in the same hospital, Lewis speaks to his groggy friend, who has just had successful surgery to repair a nicked artery:

"I heard a couple of guys talking downstairs, Bobby," Lewis says softly, "and they said if you were smart, you'd be looking to transfer after this."

Bobby's eyelids are heavy but he's able to focus on his friend's face. "What if I'm not smart?"

"Hey man, this is serious stuff," Lewis breathes. "You could have died."  
"Mm-hmm," Bobby agrees weakly. "Could have died that time when we were seventeen too."

Despite himself, Lewis chuckles at the memory. "I told you the steering was sticky on left turns – you should have listened."

Bobby smiles then too and closes his eyes for a brief moment before saying, "I don't know if I'm cut out for any other division, Lewis."

"Awful weak argument, Bobby," Lewis frowns. "Those guys said you were offered a promotion last year but you wouldn't take it. Why didn't you? You wouldn't be here today if you had."

"My team counts on me," Bobby tells him plainly.

"Yeah well so does your mom – and I'm not going to be the one to tell her that you got killed by some junkie," Lewis ups the ante.

"If I transfer, they'll put me in a suit, you know," Bobby ignores his friend's threat.

"So wear a damn suit," Lewis shrugs, easing back in the chair that he's pulled up beside his friend's bed. "You'll look better in it alive and walking around than you will dead in a casket."

"You know how much suits cost in the big and tall section?" Bobby counters.

"_Bobby_," Lewis frowns warningly, though he can tell that he's making headway.

"You chip in, man, and I'll consider it," Bobby backs down.

"Deal," Lewis pulls a tarnished quarter out of his pocket and drops it into his friend's hand, the one not attached to the IV.

Bobby chuckles and says, "Cheapskate."

Moments later he is asleep.

And in the years to come, while Bobby Goren is racking up the most successful conviction rate of any detective in the Major Case squad, he'll often open his battered leather notebook and catch a glimpse of that very quarter, taped to the inside flap as a reminder of the day he first considered a change in his lifestyle. It had taken another three years in Narcotics – another three years of being constantly on guard and aware of his own mortality – before he made the switch, but that day in the hospital had definitely been the turning point. As he ponders, he'll loosen his tie, sit back in his chair, and make a mental note to call Lewis and take him out for a beer. They'll reminisce about their wild younger days – including that time when they were seventeen – and on a rare occasion they might even talk about the day that Bobby was wounded. Lewis may even go so far as to say that if he hadn't heard those two faceless men speaking in the waiting room, it wouldn't have occurred to him that Bobby was eligible for a promotion, that Bobby had options other than what he was doing.

"It's those guys that gave me the idea," he'll say, clinking his glass against Bobby's.

And in his office just out side of the bullpen where the best detectives in the city – including Bobby Goren – work on some of the most difficult cases presented to the NYPD, Captain Jimmy Deakins (it says "James" on his nameplate, but he'll always think of himself as Jimmy) will look out and watch his top detective ruminate on the clues in his latest case. He won't remember the name of the Narcotics officer who was in surgery that long ago day when he made the decision to move his work off of the streets of the city and into the offices and boardrooms to ensure the safety of himself and his family. He won't remember the officer's name because he didn't know it, didn't think to ask for it. At the time it hadn't seemed important. Still, while he watches Bobby Goren work, sometimes he'll think about that nameless Narcotics cop and hope that he went on to lead a successful life.

It never occurs to him to ask Bobby about his days in Narcotics. In this case, two and two may equal four, but neither man is really interested in such simple math when there are cases to be solved in what the mayor deems to be a timely manner.

So there you have it, dear reader – a more recent and timely example of the ways in which the inconsequential can quickly and silently become life-altering and all powerful. Two people needn't even have direct contact with one another in order to set the future in motion – sometimes the chain is far more complicated an intricate than that.

Don't believe me?

You can always ask the widow of poor Officer Doolin, that other police officer who was slain so tragically just before Bobby was wounded. She stayed on the police force, stayed because she's never wanted to be anything else and doesn't know how to anyway. She too changed on the day that Jimmy Deakins and Bobby Goren's paths crossed for the first time – the very day of her husband's funeral. On that day, she too decided to get off the street, to use her brain to catch criminals instead of her body – _to be safe_.

And as long as they're partnered, Bobby Goren will make sure that she stays that way. And as long as the two of them are in the command of Jimmy Deakins, he will remind them that their lives are more important than their jobs.

What? Too coincidental? I've already told you that there is no such thing. The tapestry of life has threads that are so intricately woven that we mere mortals cannot see the pattern when we look at the whole, only when we look at its parts.

Let's examine one more of those parts, just to be sure…

TBC


	4. No Strangers

A/N – At long last, here we are, dear readers. Sorry for the _extremely_ long delay – out of town + writer's block no story update. I couldn't figure out how, exactly, I wanted to pull Carver in (enigma that he is) but now I think I've done it (hope I've done it, that is). Enjoy the conclusion and THANK YOU for being the best and most supportive readers EVER! You rock!

We have seen examples of unseen hands steering and guiding the fate of people who are unknowingly bound together. We have seen the power of a simple meeting, a statement casually spoken, and of a collision of events that at first glance appear merely coincidental or random. We have seen these things – I have explained these things to you in easy terms – and yet you don't believe me, dear reader. In a city with a population as large as New York, you find it hard to believe that the same few people can interact so many times before they actually meet. And yet, this only goes to prove a larger point: there are no strangers, only people who steer us on our way throughout the journey of our lives.

So now I must give one final example to make you a believer, once and for all. I must make it a good example or else you will continue to believe in coincidence, in the ideals of chance. I shall tell you the following:

A young lawyer strides into his legal aid office first thing on a Wednesday morning in March and hangs his coat on a nearby hook. He is slight of build (though his body will undoubtedly thicken as he ages) with a serious face and earnest look about him. His manner is all-business and very deliberate, as though he contemplates each and every solitary action before making a move, weighing every possible outcome in his mind. He is almost robotic in his methodical approach to his morning, moving through his routine with careful and practiced ease as he glances through the stack of memos and papers on his neat desk and checks his calendar for the day.

His office is sparsely furnished but one gets the idea that it is not merely because of the lack of revenue that flows through an office that specializes in giving legal assistance to those without means to afford it, but rather because the young lawyer in question is not one to be bothered with such trivial matters as decoration. His diploma from law school hangs prominently on a wall and on his desk are two photographs in plain wooden frames, one showing a very pretty woman with dark skin and delicate features and the other showing a group of young men in choir robes (including the lawyer), mugging for the camera. Nothing else about the office suggests that it is inhabited by anyone, much less a lawyer who is in love and can sing (as the three framed items attest).

Yet when his phone rings, the jangling noise breaking his quiet reverie, and he speaks a quiet, "Hello" into the receiver, it is easy to believe that he can, indeed, sing. His voice emerges as a rich baritone, a surprise since the slightness of his body combined with his youthful face suggests a reedy tenor, not the deep and full sounds that echo from deep within his chest.

"Ron, it's Larry Masters," says the voice on the other end, a voice tinged with that full-mouthed accent that is unique to the city of New York. "I've got a case I want you to take a look at."

"That may be difficult, Larry," is Ron's response. "I've got six cases too many right now."

"Trust me, you can handle this one," Larry haggles. "It's a slam dunk – young man was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I hardly think that I would refer to that as a 'slam dunk'," Ron says dryly, tone still mild and unperturbed.

"There are a dozen other suspects that are more likely to have done it than this guy, Ron," Larry responds patiently. "He's just a kid – only turned eighteen last week – and he's going to spend the best years of his life in prison if he doesn't get help. He can't afford a lawyer." A pause and then: "He needs someone like you."

"Then I'm afraid that you'll have to find someone _like_ me," Ron shakes his head, "because I simply can't take the case."

"Ron, I'll level with you," Larry's voice lowers conspiratorially. "He's a black kid who was arrested by white cops in a white neighborhood. They'll convict him on race alone if you don't do something."

"I'm certain there are other black attorneys in the city capable of helping him," Ron replies through gritted teeth. He is becoming annoyed now.

"I know, I know," Larry backs down, tone apologetic. "Look, I don't want to pull the race card but that doesn't mean that the prosecutor won't. Can't you just meet with the kid? Hear his side of things and then decide whether or not to take it."

"Larry, I really can't…" Ron begins to say with more force in his voice, but is cut off.  
"Ron," Larry pleads one more time, the word hanging in the air between them until the attorney swallows it in a sigh and says: "Fine. When and where?"

We won't bother with the details here, reader, because I think a discerning mind such as yours can figure out what happened next, and thus a summary will suffice. After all, from what you've seen of young Ron in this brief early description you can easily intuit that he made room on his immaculate desk for one more case file, that he met the young man and believed his side of the story, and that his sense of idealism and his well-organized mind helped him win the case. Thus, the only pertinent piece of information for you to know – a piece of crucial information that may surprise you and that certainly changes the outcome of this chain of events – is that the young man was, in fact, guilty of the crime of which he'd been accused.

Something in Ron changed on the day that the innocent verdict was read, something that would sharpen his already keen sense of morality and that would ultimately bring him to leave behind the noble realm of legal aid. In the eyes of his client (a young man whose name is immaterial, but who still plays a crucial role in the fabric of our story), young Ron could see the gleam of victory and the eagerness for another taste of lawlessness without repercussion. The young man would commit more crimes and Ron felt as though he had single-handedly given him permission to do so.

The feeling left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The prosecutor who opposed Ron on the case was a seasoned veteran named Adam Schiff, a man who would later go on to become the Manhattan District Attorney and who recognized a certain tenacity in his opponent that would put him in good stead were he to change sides of the courtroom. It was at Schiff's suggestion that Ron did just that.

No doubt, reader, you've leapt ahead in your mind and written the end of this tale based on the information you've just read. You've placed Ron Carver on the fast track to becoming an Assistant District Attorney assigned to the Major Case Squad and put him on a first name basis with New York City's top lawyers and judges as well as the mayor and other top political minds. And yet you seem to forget that the road to the top is long and winding and most people don't get there without a nudge from someone else.

In Ron's situation, his ascent to the top was sealed by one particular case that he prosecuted: the case of a patrol officer shot and killed by a motorist during a routine traffic stop in Rockaway Beach. The details of the case were complicated, as the only witness was the officer's partner and he had been in the car speaking to their dispatcher on the radio when the shooting occurred. The incident had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that neither officer had time to react, not Officer Doolin as he fell to the ground and not his partner, Officer Mankowicz as he rattled off a hasty call for help and rushed forward to aid his fallen friend. And yet in the melee, Mankowicz managed to get the license number of the shooter's vehicle as he drove off with squealing tires and a cloud of exhaust – a number that later traced back to the very man whom Ron Carver had helped back in his legal aid days, the man who had (as Ron had feared) returned to a life of crime and was now a cop killer.

And so it was a rather cruel piece of irony as prosecutor Ron Carver faced his former client in the courtroom, outlining with painstaking detail how the known events of that day that had led to the fateful traffic stop and fatal end for Officer Doolin. In his rich baritone voice he told the jury of the past criminal record of the accused and of the erratic driving maneuver that had led to the traffic stop when the accused ran a stop sign and sent an older model BMW careening off the road and through two suburban lawns before the driver was able to right the car. The BMW did not stop and because neither Doolin nor Mankowicz got the license plate number, the driver was unavailable as a prosecution witness. As the years following the case piled on top of each other, Ron Carver even began to forget that their had been a BMW and an unknown driver, so shocking was the death of Doolin – a death made more upsetting when it was revealed that the accused had shot Doolin over a mere gram of cocaine in his possession that he had feared the officer would find.

During the trial, Ron used his deep baritone voiceto tellthe jury of Officer Doolin's outstanding record with the NYPD, of his commendations and his stellar reputation. He painted a picture of a man who wanted nothing more than to put things right in his little corner of the city and of a man who loved his family and his wife of only a short time. Yet in a deferential bit of strategy that demonstrated his respect for Officer Doolin's widow and his well-concealed but certainly generous heart, Ron never indicated her presence in the courtroom to the jury, though the sight of her pale and stricken face would have sealed a guilty verdict from the beginning. He acknowledged her presence every morning, though, upon passing her in the back row of the courtroom, giving a nod and slow blink to affirm that he was doing everything in his power to give her justice and closure. Still, they never spoke – not even when Doolin's killer was sentenced to twenty-five to life with no possibility of parole, sealing Ron Carver's ascent to the upper echelons of the New York City legal system.

The name of the guilty man is still immaterial, as he was merely a catalyst in a chain of events that may well have played out with another character had he not made the choices that he did. Yet the identity of Doolin's widow is certainly important, as she and Ron Carver were not introduced officially until the day that she joined the Major Case squad, having made detective first grade and transferring up from Vice to be partnered with Detective Bobby Goren, New York City's answer to Sherlock Holmes. But Dr. Watson was someone whom Alexandra Eames would never be and Ron Carver knew that the moment she took the hand he offered, shook it firmly with a dry palm, and said:

"I look forward to working with you, Mr. Carver."

Her eyes locked on his as she spoke the words, her gaze unwavering and showing only the barest indication that she recognized him (though it was there, a glimmer of what they had shared during those weeks in the courtroom). And in a way, he supposed that they really had nothing in common in their past except for a shared tragedy – hers in losing her husband and his in letting the man who would become her husband's killer free in the first place. He certainly could not feel guilty for playing any sort of role in Officer Doolin's death – after all, _he_ had not put the gun in the man's hand, nor pulled the trigger – but it was never far from his mind that if he had lost that long ago case Doolin might never have had to make that traffic stop. Thus, Ron Carverwas left toassuage some of his lingering guilt with the knowledge that he had somehow righted a wrongwhen he hadbrought the man whom he had freed in his legal aid days to justice at last. And working with Alex Eames would also ease any pity that he might be tempted to feel, as Ron discovered her to be strong and more than able to hold her own in the detectives' bullpen.

And if Bobby Goren ever wondered why Ron Carver was often so quick to take Alex's side if they argued or if he ever noticed the assistant district attorney giving his partner a slight touch on the arm to guide her through a door or just to reassure her, he never said anything. Or if the keen detective ever noticed Alex giving Ron a nod of understanding or agreeing with the attorney instead of backing his play, he never gave any indication that he thought there was history between the two. Rather, he focused his encyclopedia-like mind on their current caseload and continued to place unwavering trust in Alex, relying on her to balance and stabilize his sometimes erratic crimesolving techniques.

Thus, dear reader, I have presented you with four cases of people whose lives have been intertwined long before they knew and whose courses have been steered by incidents that appear at first glance to be accidental, to be unrelated and based on chance. I hope that you now recognize the truth – that chance is simply the name we give to events that occur seemingly randomly but that later prove to be life-altering and that strangers are, in fact, people that are placed in our lives for a specific purpose. Some become friends, some become family, and some fade from our consciousness after their purpose is fulfilled.

Yet just because people fade does not mean that they will not reappear later. Want a last example of this before we conclude our tale? Remember the unknown BMW driver who could not be found after Officer Doolin's shooting? He certainly played a role in the lives of Ron Carver and Alex Eames – and later he became a significant player in the life of Alex's partner.

The driver's name was Dr. Daniel Croydon and his name would linger in the mind of Bobby Goren for the rest of his life. But that's a story that you probably already know, dear reader, and its retelling is best saved for a different day.

Meanwhile,another butterfly flaps its wings in South America…

FIN


End file.
